Tuesday, September 27, 2016

The Quiet of the Country

So quiet.
Almost too quiet.

I walk, listening to the silence.

Shoes crunch on gravel.

Dog barks, keen to follow the roar of the farmer's bike.

Down the driveway
the sounds of myna birds
wax eyes
a pheasant whirring up through the undergrowth
piwakawaka joyfully following
collecting insects
stirred up by my steps

Further along, the bird sounds are drowned out by cows:
in the gaps between warning mooing
and anticipatory mooing
the cud chewing is audible
as is the slurping of hooves
in and out of deep mud
and the soft plops
of freshly forming cow pats

the wind whistles past my ears
like breath over a bottle
and stirs the old macrocarpa to gossip

an aeroplane drones overhead
echoed by a white ute purring
past the end of the road

bees hum in golden gorse flowers

The old dog, panting, 
splashes into the gurgling stream

My heart beats in my ears
as I climb the hill

So quiet in the country


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